


It's Only a Matter of Time

by Dialects_and_Costumes



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, Eliza Hamilton is my conduit to Brienne of Tarth, F/M, Gen, Hamilton References, Hurt/Comfort, I hope the ending is worth the angst, Jaime Lannister is still dead, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:22:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23696917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialects_and_Costumes/pseuds/Dialects_and_Costumes
Summary: The Knight of Tarth who was the Evenstar loved the lion who was a Lannister, and the story is told on Tarth through the decades to those who come to the island to find peace and healing.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 17
Kudos: 42





	It's Only a Matter of Time

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this post](https://ladyinredfics.tumblr.com/post/145231877506/let-me-tell-you-what-i-wish-id-known-when-i-was) which gave me SEVERE Eliza Hamilton mixed with Brienne of Tarth feels, and this is the result.
> 
> When we go into big blocks of italics, that's the story being told by the old woman.

_Sixty-Four Years After the Crowning of Brandon the Broken_

Night had come early to the Sapphire Isle as a storm raged around its shores. The winds blew cruelly from the North, bringing with them a rolling discord of heavy clouds. Rain blew hard and fast against the buildings, and it was only with luck and fevered prayers to the Smith that they withstood the tempest tugging at the doors and shutters. A small group of islanders hunched against the rain as they marched from the Hall upon the hill, led by an ancient woman. Her white hair whipped around her face as she strode forward, forging the way ahead with a sturdy driftwood walking stick in one hand, and a flickering lantern in the other. Her blue-veined hands were clutched tight around both, and she had a determined gleam in her eyes as she battled the elements to lead the retinue of people and wagons to the docks.

The port of Tarth was groaning under the rolling waves crashing past and over the breakwater. The old woman licked her upper lip, tasting the salty rain of the furious storm as she waited, straightening her hunched shoulders. She was a beacon to the others, and they followed her lead, searching the faint shadows in the harbor for their quarry. The ships tied to the docks had been moved, leaving the most sheltered spot in the cove for the ship now gamely struggling to enter the harbor, veiled in a mantle of darkness. The old woman swiped water away from her face, and began her way down to the docks. As she approached the wooden frames of the harbor, the storm quieted enough for the islanders to hear shouts on board the ship.

“We’re in the eye of the storm now!” shouted the old woman as the ship broke away from the violent waves and struggled to make it to mooring. “We have less than an hour for you to disembark, you must hurry!” Other islanders surged ahead to catch ropes being flung from the ship. Strong men and women bellowed as one as they dragged the ship in for the wounded to come ashore. More strong hands lashed the ropes to the large iron storm cleats, anchoring the ship into its slip. The old woman let out an oath as lightning flashed behind her, "I will not lose any of you to the horrors of the night, hurry!" A ragtag group began to land, many of them cradling wounds close to their bodies as they stumbled towards the islanders. The old woman, now holding both the lantern and her walking stick in the same hand, laid a comforting hand on each person’s shoulder as she paired them with an islander who would wrap a salt-stiff woolen blanket around their shoulders before ushering them off the docks towards the wagons waiting to carry them up the hill.

The old woman reached out to the last man to disembark the vessel. “Here, lad. Take this lantern from me, and I’ll make sure we both get up the hill safe and sound.” The young man reached out and then blanched as he revealed not a hand, but a stump wrapped in bandages. He quickly returned the limb back to his side under the blanket she had plopped around his shoulders. There was a flash of recognition on the old woman’s face, but she remained steadfast. She waited for him to hold out his other hand patiently. Slowly, he took the lantern from her with his other hand, his arm shaking.

The old woman rapped the young man on the shoulder with her walking stick. “Come along, then. We won’t be able to get you patched up here in the rain.” Her eyes were kind as she glanced down at the young man, and he slumped slightly against the old woman as she led him to the last wagon.

Despite the age in her hands, they were strong enough to lift him into the wagon with just a minor wince, and he glanced at her in surprise. “Thank you, milady.”

She smiled gently at him. “I’m no lady, lad. We don’t stand on such ceremony anymore, remember?”

The young man nodded. The rule of King Brandon the Broken had been stable for the better part of fifty years. Fourteen winters ago, however, the Raven King had been discovered missing. A note was placed in the Small Council’s Book of Memories, and it contained his last decree:

_I have found the last dragon. The Reign of monarchs is over; it is now the time of our people to govern._

The young man leaned against the wood of the wagon listlessly, cradling his injury close to his chest as the old woman clambered up into the driver’s box and whistled sharply at the horses. The rain showered down on the oiled leather above his head, and he let the pounding rhythm lull him into a half-slumber. As the wind began to whistle once more in earnest, the wagon slowed. “Rouse yourselves, lad. You’ve made it to the House of Healing.” Tartheans swarmed the wagons, strong and sure hands helping the newcomers down onto the cobblestones of what had formerly been Evenfall’s bailey. It was bare minus the unloading wagons, a prudent preparation for the storm which was once more picking up speed. The young man found himself once more under the wing of the old woman, and she led him into the warmth of the main building.

What was once clearly the Great Hall was now filled with partitioned spaces for rest. Each partitioned area had a sturdy cot, and stools lined every corner of the walls. An islander stood at the giant oak doors, handing each new patient a hunk of crusty bread oozing with a smoky, melted cheese. As the young man scarfed down the food, the old woman led him towards the hearth, pausing by each partition to murmur words of encouragement to the patients and their caregivers. The ship had brought over two dozen injured from the mainland of the Six Kingdoms for them to recover from the injuries dealt them by the inventions of the Citadel. Each man was settling into a cot for an islander to examine, and the young man shuddered as he passed men groaning from lacerations to their bellies so deep he could see bone, a woman weeping from her only remaining eye, and a person so badly bloodied he could not determine if they were man or woman.

The only sense of finery still in the ancient hall were the two Valyrian steel swords displayed above the hearth, their steel glowing in the firelight. There was a small glimmering frame under it with an aged piece of paper, but the writing was too far away from the young man’s bed for him to read.

“Settle down here, lad. I’ll take a look at that arm.”

He cradled it closer to his body as the woman dragged a stool close to his bedside. She stretched her weaker leg out with a sigh of relief which turned into a huff of irritation as she looked him over.

“I won’t bite any more of it off, now let me see.”

He slowly stretched his arm out to her, and she pulled at the bandages.

“Good to see these wrappings have been changed recently; you would not wish to see what can happen to someone who isn’t properly taken care of when dealing with the loss of a limb.”

The young man looked at her in a shaky wonder as she examined his stump without a grimace. “You’ve seen this before?”

The old woman’s eyes were soft, almost unbearably so, as she looked over his damaged skin. “Many times.” Her eyes focused in on the still healing stump, and she critically examined the swollen flesh. “Some of this has become infected. We know how to deal with such things, but it will cause you great pain.”

The young man’s laugh was bitter. “More pain than losing my hand? I _was_ that hand.”

Her responding glare made any other response shrivel upon his tongue. “Nonsense. I won’t hear any more of that from you, young ser.” She groaned slightly as she shifted her leg to stand once more, grabbing her walking stick crankily. “Stay here.”

As she walked past the hearth, she paused, looking up to the swords. Decades seemed to layer her face as she gazed and gazed, and the young man was struck by the longing in her eyes. _It is as if she could look until the end of time and never be satisfied_ , he thought. As quickly as the thought had arrived, the old woman was hobbling away towards some form of a supply station, her cane thumping out a rhythm as she walked. She returned carrying a tray of maester’s tools, and placed it carefully on her original stool before dragging another one over to the bed. Before easing herself down once more, she closed off the partition. She looked over at him and sighed at his sullen face.

“There is no control over who lives or who dies, young one. You will have no more control over who continues on to tell your story than you have control over the hand severed from your wrist. There is no control over your legacy; no more than there is control over who it is you love. But you can choose to be brave when the world brings chaos to your threshold. You can control your answer when they rap at your door.”

She lay a clean swatch of linen on the bed and silently indicated for the young man to rest his arm on it. She stared down at the arm, the cracks and lines on her weathered face made deep by the flickers of firelight.

“I cannot give you milk of the poppy to chase away the pain, lad. We cannot keep it for long on Tarth, the salt in the air turns it rancid. But if you would hear it, I would tell you a story. Perhaps it will help distract you from the pain, perhaps it will help you begin your journey to life as more than a single hand, and perhaps it will make you wish to curse at an old woman. This is the relief we offer here in our House of Healing.” Her eyes seemed to lead the young man into eternity. He could almost see the famed battles his father had told him as a mere boy clashing in the divide of her irises and pupils; there in one corner was the Long Night, in another was the Clash of the Five Kings. The young man cringed slightly as he saw her reach for a sharpened knife, but he nodded abruptly to her.

As the woman dabbed his infected stump with boiled wine to stem any further infection, her deep, ancient voice continued, soothing away his cringes of pain. The sharp knife cut into his skin, and the man fell back onto the cot, gasping with the pain. He held onto the story from the old woman, her tone remaining low and even.

_Do you know what it is to fall in love? Love is what led to many great and terrible wars in my youth. That drunken feeling of looking into someone’s eyes and knowing the sky is the limit, looking at someone and thinking, ‘Ah, yes. This one is mine and I am theirs’, the feeling of helplessness. It was what dragged Westeros through countless wars before I was out of my maidenhood._

_This is the story of love._

_Which battle was the beginning of love gone wrong? Many will say it is Robert’s Rebellion where Westeros learned of love. The dragon who was Rhaegar looked upon the wolf who was Lyanna, and claimed “This one’s mine.”_

_The wolf who was Lyanna had love in her heart when she followed the dragon who was Rhaegar and said under a willow tree, “This one’s mine.” The stag who was Robert would not listen to the wolf who was Lyanna. His heart had already claimed her just as the dragon who was Rhaegar had._

_He did not listen to the wolf who was Lyanna. He tore through the country to scream, “This one’s mine. I will not share her.”_

_This is the story of love._

_Was it before Robert’s Rebellion that love went wrong? Before the stag who was Robert killed men to claim the wolf who was Lyanna only to see her die in a bed of blood, the Lannister lions were already loving one another. The Lannister lioness cub and her lion twin brother loved one another like a wife loves her husband. Their love was deep and true to them. Their love led to the death of the King who was Robert. Their love led to the crippling of the King who would be Brandon. Their love led to the War of the Five Kings, but their love was borne before the wolf who was Lyanna and the stag who was Robert had even met. Their love, some would say, was destined by a witch. Their love, some would say, was destined by their birth. Their love, one would say, was hateful. But it was love._

_The lion who was a Lannister loved his sister who was also a Lannister. The lion who was a Lannister was made for love, for the lion who was a Lannister loved more than his sister who was also a Lannister. He also loved the Maid of Tarth who was the Evenstar._

_This is the story of love._

_The lion who was a Lannister fought the War for the Dawn for the Maid of Tarth who was the Evenstar. He looked into her eyes and drowned in them. He saved her from death, from ruin, and from a bear who was a bear. He armed her. He armored her. He knighted her. He loved her. He loved the Maid of Tarth who was the Evenstar, and he loved her when she became the Knight of Tarth who was the Evenstar. The lion who was a Lannister loved the Knight of Tarth who was the Evenstar, and she loved the lion who was a Lannister. He had mocked her, fought her, and he had lost a hand for her. He dreamed of her, and he fought beside her against the dead, only to be alive. How lucky they were to be alive. The Knight of Tarth who was the Evenstar loved him._

_The lion who was a Lannister was the first and last love borne in war. His love sent him back south during the Battle of the Two Queens. His love was there to comfort his sister who was a Lannister as her folly fell around them both and ended their lives. This is the story of love._

_Do you know what it is to fall in love?_

The knife had stilled in the old woman’s hands. She glanced at the young man, who was sweating with exertion as he struggled to keep from shouting his agony aloud. He whimpered slightly as she soaked another linen strip with boiled wine and set it to the exposed raw flesh.

“Your story was not a happy one, old woman.” He snapped, shivering despite the roar of flames coming from the hearth behind her.

The old woman arched her brow at the youth, but simply pursed her lips. “What fool told you stories of love are happy ones? More often than not, they end with someone weeping in the snow. It’s only the songs that make it feel as if one would be happy in love.”

She pulled her wine-soaked linen away, and frowned as the wound continued to sluggishly bleed. “We will have to soak this to stem the bleeding. I have more tales to distract you, but there is little happiness in them.”

The young man glanced at her, his face pale and tight with pain. He sighed in resignation, nodding once more. “Tell me more of your Evenstar, the Knight of Tarth; her story is one I don’t know like the others.”

The old woman held his arm delicately as she arranged her basin of boiled wine on the stool next to her. She nodded, and took the young man’s uninjured hand in her free hand. “Hers is not an easy one to hear. Hold tight to my hand when you wish to flee from the pain.” She plunged his stump into the wine, holding it firm.

_Do you know betrayal? The Knight of Tarth who was the Evenstar was no stranger to betrayal. She was betrayed by a face only her father could love. She was betrayed by men who wished to steal our island. She was betrayed by the lion who was a Lannister. She was betrayed by them all, and our island remembers._

_This is the story of betrayal._

_When the Knight of Tarth was still a Maid of Tarth, she met the stag who was Renly. He danced with the Knight who was still the Maid of Tarth, and she let him dance away with her heart. He was not her first betrayal, nor was he the cruelest. The Knight who was still the Maid of Tarth followed the stag who was Renly to war. She learned to fight cruel men who wished to steal her from the Maiden’s service. She learned the stag who was Renly loved the rose who was Loras. She wept for the stag who was Renly as a lover when he died, even though he had betrayed her trust, and betrayed her love, and made her fight men claiming to be her comrades to protect her. Why did you not protect your Maid of Tarth as you had when you danced with her? Why did you not know you had been blessed with the best of our people? The Knight of Tarth who was the Evenstar remembered and forgave the stag who was Renly. Our island remembers the stag who was Renly._

_This is the story of betrayal._

_She was betrayed by her own comrades. She swore to the wolf who was Catelyn Stark to save her children, and Stark bannermen betrayed her oath. They discovered her escorting the lion who was a Lannister to be used as barter for the wolves who were Arya and Sansa. They threatened to steal her from the Maiden’s service, and the lion who was a Lannister saved her. They betrayed her and took the hand of the lion who was a Lannister. They told her it was payment for her virtue, they scorned her claim of loyalty to the wolf who was Catelyn Stark, and they dragged her through the mud as the caretaker of the lion who was a Lannister. Why did you not trust a woman? Why did the lion who was a Lannister force them to betray her sworn oath by saving her life? The Knight of Tarth who was the Evenstar remembered the men who were sworn to the Starks. Our island remembers the men who were sworn to the Starks. We do not forgive._

_This is the story of betrayal._

_The Maid of Tarth became the Knight of Tarth by the sword of the lion who was a Lannister. He lay it upon her shoulders and charged her to be brave, to be just, and to protect the innocent. As they lay together, he charged her to once again be brave. The Knight of Tarth who was the Evenstar was the Maid of Tarth no longer, and she was happy in love. She reached out to the lion who was a Lannister and gave him that which no man had taken before. She offered him life. She offered him our island. She offered him the heart of the Knight of Tarth who was the Evenstar. And then he betrayed her. Why did you leave her for the lioness who was your sister? Why did she weep? You said you were hers, she thought you were hers, and our island would have been yours if you had followed her home. Instead, she walks the paths of the island alone. She walks by herself, she talks to the lion who was a Lannister who betrayed her. She tells him she would have been enough. The Knight of Tarth who was the Evenstar remembered the lion who was a Lannister. Our island remembers the lion who was a Lannister. This is the story of betrayal._

_Do you know betrayal?_

“Why did she come back sad?” The young man’s question was so innocent, he looked like he was still a youth counting seasons in the single digits. He was gasping with pain as the old woman ignored his question, pulling his stump out of the wine bath.

“Hold this elevated for a few minutes, please.” The old woman scrubbed the wine from her arms, and bent slightly over the tray of maester’s tools to pick up a needle and thread.

“Milady?”

She wiped the sweat from his brow and hers, a faint smile warming her eyes. “Not a lady, remember?” She held the needle and thread up to the light from the fire, ensuring it was threaded properly. The old woman leaned back, considering the young man’s question.

“Do you not think it logical that a woman mourn the loss of love?”

The young man frowned. “But you said she was betrayed by Lannister, wouldn’t she be angry?”

The old woman smiled sadly. “Anger can only burn for so long, lad. She tried to let it burn for years, knowing it was easier to just swim down into the pain. But there is a grace too powerful to remain in the face of anger.” She glanced down at the young man, still peering up at her in exhausted confusion. “Forgiveness.”

The word fell into the quiet crackling of the fire, the soft murmurs coming from other beds in the hall. The old woman inhaled deeply, looking over to the swords hanging above the fire. “Can you imagine her? Standing in the entryway to her home here on Tarth, standing in the Sept of the Seven, the Evenstar worked on the unimaginable. She forgave him.” She held her hand out to the young man, and he placed his stump in her outstretched palm as she began to stitch the open skin.

“You knew her?”

A lone tear slipped from her eyes which were steadfastly focused down on her stitches. “All of Tarth knew the Evenstar and loved her while she was their Lady Knight.”

“Is she the reason you’re here to help us?” The old woman nodded, not breaking from the stitches.

“She was very clear that Tarth was to be a place for healing. The world of wars waged for the naked ambitions of others had no honor in them to justify the sword of the last Evenstar of Tarth.” The old woman hesitated as she tied off her stitches. “It is… it is said she knew the lion who was a Lannister would have done so much more if he only had time. If he had not died with his sister, he would have helped heal the world of its scars, for those he bore were deeper than most.” The old woman gently touched her work before wrapping a new bandage firmly around the stump.

She stood, leaning on her walking stick, slowly pacing towards the mantle. “If he was here, she would tell him this place was what she was proudest of.” She spoke softly, and the young man sat up, watching as her face filled with sorrow and memory. Her mood had shifted; she was no longer a storyteller, this old woman was a confessor to him now. She looked back down at the youth, eyes made ancient with decades of grieving.

“She would tell him that she sees him in the eyes of every man she heals. She sees him every time.”

Realization seeped through the fog of pain swimming in the young man’s body. He looked upon the tall, ancient warrior in front of him. “You’re…?”

Brienne’s blue eyes crinkled as she nodded slightly. “I came home from the wars and from serving for a time in the Kingsguard of Brandon ten years after the destruction of King’s Landing. Tarth was a haven of peace for me; I was able to heal here. It was not enough.”

Brienne flexed her hand on the walking stick, straightening slightly. “I opened the island to all those who needed a place to heal. At first it was soldiers who served with us in the War for the Dawn, and now it is home for all of those struggling with the inventions of industry. My people keep a record of their stories in our library, my old squire’s son will surely be by tomorrow for yours.”

The young man was quiet as Brienne bowed her head. He could not fathom her grief. It was sharp and aching, settled into every inch of her. It was older than him, probably older than his father, and he could not bear seeing such an ancient sorrow still so fresh. “I relied on Podrick until his dying day. He helped me tell the stories of so many, just as his son does now. I buried him in the sea twelve years ago. My sweet boy. I knighted him forty years before he died, and he still insisted on being my squire until the very end.” Brienne raised a hand to her cheek, brushing away the tear that had fallen. The young man stood shakily, compelled to the side of Brienne of Tarth, the former Evenstar. His undamaged hand gently grasped her elbow and led her back to the stool by the bed.

Brienne sat once more, her spine straight, defying the years written on her face. She gazed into the fire and once again the young man was shaken by the yearning. He was relieved to be laying down once more in the bed, and the warmth from the fire blanketed him as he began to drift to sleep.

“When my time is up, have I done enough?” He heard her murmur into the flames. “Will they tell our story?” Her words were soft, and the young man was unsure if they were meant for him, for the memory of the lion who was a Lannister, or if they were for the gods themselves.

As he drifted off to sleep, he heard Brienne’s voice once more, a mere whisper of a thought barely discernable over the wind howling outside.

“I can’t wait to see you again.”

The youth’s sleep was filled with dreams. He saw a knight clad in blue rushing through snow and ash to fight off terrifying creatures. He saw a knight brandishing a golden hand to beat back those who tried to attack the Blue Knight. He saw steam rising from hot springs and two figures cradling each other. He saw a hall full of revelry, and the same two figures smiling freely at one another.

These flashes of life paled in comparison to the last picture to brand his dreams. Light blazed around him. _I have died, and the Warrior comes to bring me to the Stranger_ was his first thought, for the figure in front of him was truly a god-like knight. He had scars lining his face, he was missing a hand, but he was golden and ageless as only a god could be. The god ignored his ghostly presence, however, and looked beyond the youth to a woman as ageless as the man, bright blue eyes sparkling with pleasure. She was running towards the Warrior, clad in armor made of sapphires, and she was laughing joyfully. The Warrior embraced the woman, lifting her from the ground to spin with her in his arms. They both laughed and laughed, their innocent delight spreading through the whole world of his dream.

As they faded from his sight, the young man wondered why no one had ever realized the Warrior should not be known as a single figure, for surely they should be known instead as the Warriors. He was certain he had been graced by two gods in his dream, both of them the truest knights of them all, old and new.

* * *

When the young man woke, dawn was beginning to creep into the hall. The stools next to his bed had been cleared away, and rain was pattering at the wooden beams of the roof. A man stood by the hearth, weeping openly as he looked up at the swords. The young man felt a pang of guilt as he stood from the bed, drawing the older man’s attention.

“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to disrupt your sleep.” The older man said, bracing his shoulders.

“Please, do not trouble yourself with me, milord. I was awake before I noticed you.” The young man responded automatically, bobbing his head in an awkward bow.

“No titles here, lad. I’m Selwyn Payne, and I welcome you to Tarth.” Both men bowed slightly, and a painful silence fell as another tear fell onto Selwyn’s jerkin.

Selwyn let out a shaky breath, his voice gruff and abrupt. “I apologize as there is no gentle way to convey this news to our newcomers. The island will be a somber place as you recover. The Stranger claimed my Lady in her sleep.” He looked back to the swords above the mantle, murmuring a prayer. “The light of the Evenstar is gone, long may she guard Tarth from the Heavens.”

The young man swallowed, and could manage no words before Selwyn bowed once more and exited the Hall.

He walked over to the mantle, looking up at the swords as Brienne had last night, and as Selwyn Payne had done just now. Once again, he could see the small scrap of paper, framed with dragonglass polished to transparency. The writing was shaky, and it reminded him of the note he had managed to scrawl with his weaker hand to be sent with the last ravens before boarding the ship to Tarth.

He could hear quiet sobs coming from around him, _the island mourns,_ as he read the message preserved between panes of unbreakable dragonglass.

“With my last idea; I shall cherish the sweet hope of meeting you in a better world. -J"

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's not fix-it exactly, but I figured if Titanic can do "old lady is reunited with her love in the afterlife" so can I. Also, I know nothing about wound-care but it's a fictional world and I'm going to pretend like I know what I'm talking about.
> 
> I stole a few phrases from the letter Hamilton wrote about the hurricane striking his hometown to describe the storm throughout the story, both in the text of the story and in some of Brienne's dialogue.  
> The text of Jaime's fictional note is stolen directly from what Alexander Hamilton wrote to Eliza Hamilton in his farewell letter before his duel with Aaron Burr.  
> I stole portions of "Helpless", "That Would Be Enough", "Burn", "It's Quiet Uptown", and "Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story" to make me v. emotional about Brienne and Eliza Hamilton.


End file.
